Unravelled
by chromeknickers
Summary: The tapestry of our lives is short, and it can easily come undone with a single act. But whom do the faithless turn to for guidance when that weave begins to unravel? Who can offer respite to the abandoned when she, herself, is lost? TEMPORARY HIATUS.


_**Warning**__: There is a certain amount of bad language in this fic—and I don't mean split infinitives. There will be swearing and material of a disturbing nature. So, if you are at all offended by rude or crude language—for Merlin's sake—please don't be a cunt about it. _

_Seriously, though, there's going to be a fair amount of religion, politics, and social commentary in this fic. If these topics get your knickers in a twist, I would suggest you stop reading at this point, if you haven't already—or read on if you're brave_…_ or masochistic. ^_~_

_Cheers!_

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**Unravelled**

Chapter 1

_She digs her nail into the weave, pinching a loose string between thumb and forefinger. She slowly begins to pull, unravelling the tapestry that is her life. There is no turning back now. She has made her choice. There is her perfectly made bed, and now she has to lie in it._

_Her fingers are numb, and she feels the cold sink into her skin as though it is porous, lacing her bones with a sort of permafrost. She wants to call out; she wants to scream violently against her tormentor, who keeps her locked within her gilded cage. She wishes for nothing more than to rake her ragged nails down his back and draw blood—to make him feel her pain. _

_No. _

_No, she wants the pain. It is hers and hers alone. She needs it. It is the only thing that keeps her sane._

_Why does he get to feel emotion while she doesn't? Why must she be the one trapped, encased in ice? She isn't some goddamn doll to be put on display. She isn't someone's fucking prize. She isn't—_

"Ginny?"

The redhead glanced up, her reverie broken. Mangled thoughts penetrated her mind like shards of glass, fragmenting into brain matter and tissue. She swallowed dryly and looked away.

"Ginny," Luna cajoled, "we can sit here for the remaining hour and watch the paint peel off my office walls, or we can discuss the news from this morning."

"I'd rather not."

She was staring at the floor again, at an invisible spot beside the cherry bubblegum-coloured heel that quickly slid over to meet its sister. Two pointed shoes faced forward, looking directly at her, mocking her.

"Alright then," Luna said airily. She artfully crossed her legs and clasped both hands together, bringing them to the apex of her knee. Normally, she would have a notepad on her lap to record her sessions, but not with Ginevra. "Have you been seeing anyone lately?"

The redhead watched as her friend flicked her colourful pump in the air, and she slowly shook her head, letting out a deep sigh. "No."

Luna curled a long, stray lock of corn-silk hair behind her ear and absently fiddled with a radish earring. "Why is that?"

"I haven't got the time."

The blonde lowered her hand and tilted her head to the side. "Is that really the answer?"

Ginevra scowled and sat up straight in her chair. "No, I just don't feel like I'm ready yet, not since…" She trailed off, now directing her attention to one of the legs on Luna's chair.

"Not since Harry's death," her friend finished for her, and the redhead numbly nodded her head.

There was a pregnant pause, and a thick, familiar tension filled the room. Luna was unperturbed by this, as she was never put off by awkward moments. She regarded Ginevra with protuberant, silvery grey eyes and noted, in silence, the imperceptible frown that shadowed the redhead's delicate features.

"It's been three years, Ginny," Luna stated softly, breaching the silence. "Do you not think that has been enough time to mourn?"

More silence.

"It is and it isn't," Ginevra finally replied, evenly. Her voice was always steady and confident.

"Could you clarify that?"

Ginevra exhaled a short breath through her nose and nodded her head. "It is a reasonable amount of time to get over someone and try to move on," she answered, still staring at the fixed spot. "It seems logical to do so, but, _emotionally_, I'm not ready."

Luna leaned back and rested her hands on the arms of the chair. "A textbook answer from a textbook patient," she said, and Ginevra finally snapped her head up to meet Luna's unwavering gaze. "Is there perhaps another reason for your hesitation to move on?"

_Beep. Beep._

The pager startled both patient and doctor, and Ginevra fumbled for the device in her coat pocket. She pulled it out and glanced down to see the green-glowing message. The pager was a new system put into effect by her boss. She had the thing for two weeks now, and it was still hard to get used to, as it never failed to interrupt meetings and appointments.

"Sorry, Luna," she apologised as she rose and buttoned her coat. "I'm going to have to cut this session short. Doctor Ryerson has a new patient for me."

Luna nodded her head and uncrossed her legs so that she could stand up and show her friend to the door.

"So those are the new pagers then?" she asked with unmasked curiosity as she ogled the device in the redhead's hand. "They're very Muggle-like."

Ginevra smiled thinly and pocketed the pager. "Yes, they are very convenient—as well as annoying." She then tilted her head and eyed the blonde strangely. "Weren't you given one?"

Luna offered her a lazy half-smile. "Yes, but I lost it on the second day." She distractedly glanced over at a Métis painting that hung just beside the door and exhaled dramatically. "I'd blame the Nargles, but I don't think I'm meant to handle such devices."

Ginevra nodded her head and bit her lower lip, trying to fight the grin that wanted to surface on her face.

Luna opened the door. "Shall we pick this up next week, or would you like to schedule sooner? I have a slot free this Thursday afternoon," she offered, slowly blinking silver-blue eyes.

The redhead shook her head. "No, next week's fine. We can pick up with your Socratic questioning then," she said with a smirk as she turned to walk down the hall.

Ginevra's ward was located in the West wing, whereas Luna dealt with private patients in the East.

"And you can continue being evasive," Luna said softly as she watched her friend round the corner.

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Ginevra Weasley worked at Briar Ridge: a semi-private psychiatric centre located next to St Mungo's Hospital. Most of the institute's money came from the wealthy wizarding class, who paid psychiatrists like Luna Lovegood ungodly amounts of money to discuss daddy issues or how their cuddly canine or furry feline friends had given them complexes. The subsidised section of the centre, where Ginevra worked, catered to Ministry employees and low-income families.

The centre itself was built in early 2000, after St Mungo's began to fill up with witches and wizards suffering from the after effects of the fall of Voldemort. The death of the tyrant had not ended the war like everyone had hoped. Battles raged on no less hot than the one that took place on the venerable grounds of Hogwarts. Wizard uprisings and revolts took place across the globe—so numerous that the Ministry was forced to create a new division, known as the Special Forces, to assist the too-few Aurors left to battle the latent threats. In addition to capturing renegade Death Eaters and quelling insurrections, the Ministry was faced with a multitude of displaced veterans, suffering from the unspeakable atrocities of war—a condition known as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

It was obvious that the Ministry was in dire need of proper direction, and that guidance would come from Doctor Warren Reeves, a half-blood wizard and former leading psychiatrist and psychotherapist at a Muggle teaching hospital in downtown London. Kingsley Shacklebolt facilitated the doctor's return to the wizarding world to act as the director of Briar Ridge. Reeves went straight to work at the centre, as well as setting up grants for witches and wizards who wished to pursue the practice of psychiatry.

Now, almost a decade since the revision of the Ministry's armed forces, the Ministry-funded psychiatric care geared towards its veterans had been put into full effect, dealing with a massive patient influx on a daily basis. It was true that the battles had died down and what was once a military operation was now slowly evolving into a policing effort; however, there were still many veterans in need of therapy. There had to be something done for the numerous witches and wizards with missing limbs, incurable curses, and serious psychological trauma, which prevented them from coping with day-to-day life.

Something would be done, for this was where Doctor Ginevra Weasley stepped in. It was here, in the presence of misery, where she shined the brightest; it was here, in the place of the damned, where she would offer faith to the faithless.

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"Doctor Weasley," Director Reeves called out the moment he saw the redhead round the corner. "Good. I see you got my page then. I hope that I didn't take you away from anything too pressing. I know how annoying these new contraptions can be."

Ginevra gave the director a puzzled look and then nodded her head. She had assumed that Doctor Ryerson had paged her. It was unlike the director to get personally involved in an attending's cases.

"No, Director, you didn't interrupt anything at all." She offered her boss a thin smile—a display of her customary icy professionalism—and then walked over to the sign-in desk where the older doctor stood. "Where's Chief Ryerson?"

Reeves smiled and took an offered chart from a nurse, signing it before handing it back. "He's inducting the new attendings. He should be back later this afternoon."

Doctor Charles Ryerson was the chief of psychotherapy at the centre. He was a middle-aged wizard, chalked full of the same cold professionalism that Ginevra often emulated. His background was strictly Healing, where he had worked at St Mungo's until Briar Ridge was built. While she respected her advisor, Ginevra sometimes felt him to be a little too set in his ways for her liking. Unlike Doctor Reeves, who used Muggle methods for therapy, Ryerson preferred to use magical means, which offered little to no long-term relief for their patients. Still, he was a skilled Healer and an excellent supervisor.

"Simmons is being sent home today," Reeves announced, interrupting Ginevra's reverie. "I thought you might want to wish him a bon farewell, seeing as you're his number one therapist and all."

She made a noncommittal sound and cleared her throat, giving him a look that clearly indicated she would do no such thing.

"Or not," he said dryly, the mirth temporarily fleeing from his rheumatic blue eyes. "Well, I guess I'll just to get to the point then: I have some good news and some bad news."

She raised an eyebrow. "I thought Simmons was my good news."

"Hmm," Reeves said, feigning a distraught look, "I always start these things off wrong." He smiled. "Okay, you have some _more_ good news and a bit of bad news."

She folded her arms across her chest. "New patient then?"

"Yes, we got him on loan from St Mungo's this morning. The bad news is that he's a high priority."

She lowered her arms. "Suicide watch?"

"I'm afraid so."

She let out a disappointed sigh but then quickly recovered and put on her professional face. "So what's the good news then?"

"He's not dead yet," he replied, deadpan, and then handed her a metal case chart. "There are a few things that you'll need to go over in his file before you see him." He exhaled slowly and furrowed his brow in a serious manner. "I should tell you that he's a veteran—volunteer status with a slew of accolades and a list of commendations as long as my arm." He held out his forearm for effect. "He has almost a decade of battles under his belt."

"PTSD?" she asked absently, not really listening to Reeves praising, as she opened the chart to peruse her new client's history and diagnoses.

Before Reeves had became a doctor, he'd been a Royal Marine enlisted in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. Veterans who walked in the door at Briar Ridge held a special place in the old wizard's heart, and he made it a point to meet every one of them.

The director nodded his head and leaned over to flip past the first two pages on her chart and pointed to the second paragraph down. "Very much so, including severe depression and suicidal tendencies." He then handed her a large, blue folder, and she took it with a frown, closing the other file. "I managed to get a copy of his military record from the Ministry. His service has been exemplary, and he had a spotless record up until three years ago. Since then, he has been censured for numerous behavioural violations."

Ginevra felt the weight of both files in her hands. She'd have some light reading to do before she met her patient.

"Is he currently under supervision?" she asked.

Reeves shrugged his shoulders. "In a manner of speaking," he answered, and she looked up at him with a creased brow. "He's in the trauma ward right now."

A look of incredulity washed over the otherwise unflappable redhead's face. "Did no one take away his wand?"

Briar Ridge had a 'no wand' rule, which applied to both patient and doctor. It was instituted for safety purposes, should a patient abscond with a doctor's wand. Only the on-call medical staff in the trauma ward were allowed wands, in case something went wrong.

"They did, but he got into some potions." Reeves raised his hands as if to say 'you know how these things happen'.

She nodded her head in understanding. "Is he addicted to anything?"

Reeves tapped a pale finger on her folders and smiled. "It's all in there."

The director then turned his attention to the same nurse who had earlier given him a patient's chart to initial. She was now handing him a stack of papers to sign.

"I'll move him to his room within the hour," he told Ginevra over his shoulder as he took the papers and headed towards his office. "That should give you ample time to familiarise yourself with his case before you meet him and begin your interview and assessment."

"Yes, thank you, Director," Ginevra said, as she was about to turn on her heel and head towards her own office.

"Ginevra?" the old wizard called out, standing in the middle of the hall with loose-leaf parchments threatening to spill from his hands.

"Yes?" she asked, pausing mid-turn, as she held her charts close to her chest.

"I heard about Finnigan and Thomas this morning," he said quietly, with a kind of finality in his voice. "I am truly sorry."

She swallowed hard and blinked once. "Thank you, Director."

The wizard offered her a sad smile and then turned around, leaving her in the hallway with a loss for words. After a moment's hesitation, she finally made her way to her office, feeling oddly numb again. She unlocked her door and stepped inside, flicking on the lights.

She promptly tossed her folders onto her desk with a loud clang and walked around to take a seat on the plush leather chair. She leaned forward and rested her head in her hands, taking in a deep breath. Luna had wanted to talk to her about Dean and Seamus this morning in her session, but she didn't want to. She couldn't.

The two had been labelled as missing in action (MIA) and assumed prisoners of war (POW) three years ago, at the Battle of Durmstrang. Earlier that morning, it had been reported that their bodies were located on the shores of the Danube River, via Romania, less than a week ago. Wizarding tests had shown that they had been brutally tortured and killed only hours before their bodies were dumped into the river. She had so many questions, but she dared not ask. To question the cruelty found in _her_ world was to invite uncontrolled emotion. She couldn't afford that. Instead, she would dismiss the entire affair as something that she and the rest of the world would have to live with.

She sat up in her chair and let out a protracted sigh, eyeing the charts on her desk. Time was wasting. She considered leafing through her patient's medical history and giving it a cursory glance. Generally, she preferred to meet her patients unbiased, without any medical or psychological issues to skew her judgement. Of course, after the initial meeting she would familiarise herself with his or her case quite thoroughly: to compare notes, to complete a write-up, and then to come up with different therapeutic strategies.

She drummed her fingers on the desk and then glanced up at the clock. She had an hour before she was to meet her client, and she really didn't want to sit at her desk and dwell upon the death of two close schoolmates. She slid the metal chart closer to her and turned over the heavy cover. She bit her lip in keen concentration and brought a forefinger to the top of the page to trace her patient's name. She frowned. She had not been expecting this.

The name on the top of the file read '_Draco Lucius Malfoy_'.

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**Author notes**: at Briar Ridge, the psychiatrists are referred to as doctors instead of Healers.

*****Many thanks to **rowan_greenleaf** for making this story as realistic as possible, especially when it came to the psychiatry department. She has been invaluable in her efforts to supply me with proper information. Any mistakes made in this story are completel

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**Lia's Avant-Garde Challenge**

You never thought there'd come a time when you were forced (okay—given the option) to write something _unconventional_. Well, my dears, that time is nigh. And before you get your knickers in a twist, I assure you that this challenge is not nearly as daunting as it looks. All I want you to do is write something that you have never written before.

All I ask is that you be creative and follow the **simple rules** below:

It must be D/G oriented.

It must have a T-M rating.

You must use _at least _one of the following phrases in your story: _'there's something about your eyes', 'we're all born innocent', _or_ 'you're a beautiful, fucked up man' _(replace 'man' with 'woman' or 'girl' if you wish to address the other gender).

It must be 1,000 words in length, minimum (this is _not _including author notes).

It must be beta'd.

You must post it on FIA _as well as_ FFN.


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